


If You Don’t Mind Driving a Bit

by unrealitycheck



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Feelings, M/M, Pining, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, The 90s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrealitycheck/pseuds/unrealitycheck
Summary: The only time Richie sawthatamount of worship on anyone’s face was when Ben gazed at Beverly. Eddie had thatsamelovestruck, melted chocolate softness in his eyes, like he was ready to get down on his knees and ask that stupid old car to marry him. What a beautiful weddingthatwould be.Edward Kaspbrak, do you take Old Lady Buick to be your lawfully wedded car? I DO!Or: It’s 1993. Richie and Eddie go out of town to pick up Eddie’s first car and Richie fights a lot of Feelings™ along the way.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 114





	If You Don’t Mind Driving a Bit

**Author's Note:**

> _He called Eddie Kaspbrak next, but Eddie sounded even more depressed than Bill—his mother had gotten them each a full-day bus-pass, he said, and they were going to visit Eddie’s aunts in Haven and Bangor and Hampden. All three of them were fat, like Mrs. Kaspbrak, and all three of them were single._ —IT, Stephen King
> 
>  _Here in my car_  
>  _I feel safest of all._ —“Cars,” Gary Numan

_November, 1993_

Richie knew this situation would look a Hell of a Lot Cooler in the summertime.

First of all, he would be driving his dad's '92 convertible—a.k.a. The Midlife Crisis Cruiser—with the top rolled _down_. But instead he was parked in front of Eddie's house with the car heater on, sending exhaust clouds into the already-way-too-cloudy sky. Second of all, Mrs. K was home. Richie could see her through the front window, stuck to the couch in front of the TV, as usual. She thought Eddie was going to spend the day at Richie's house. If she even _suspected_ what they were actually up to, she would burst into jumbo-sized tears and drown the whole neighborhood because she couldn't handle her precious little Eddie-Bear Growing the Fuck Up.

That was why they had to do this in November, on the first Saturday after Eddie's eighteenth birthday. Mrs. K could cry all she wanted. Whether she liked it or not, she couldn't keep Eddie from having his own car now that he was eighteen and legally free to escape her clutches.

Richie often feared Eddie never _would_ escape her clutches. Mrs. K had this crazy power over him. So Richie had offered Eddie a place to stay if Mrs. K's bullshit got to be too much. Not in a _weird_ way or anything. Just a casual, _Hey, dude, you can come crash in my basement any time. The key's under the doormat!_ But so far Eddie had remained glued to his mother's side, like she was a fucking oxygen tube and Eddie would go off life support if he stayed away from her too long.

A second figure appeared in the window of the Kaspbrak house. It was Eddie, going over to kiss Mrs. K on the cheek because he still couldn't let go of his _bye-bye, mommy, I love you_ routine. Richie always called him a fucking baby, but Eddie kept doing it. Probably because Mrs. K would shit her plus-sized pants if Eddie even _dared_ to act like he was a day over seven.

But then the door creaked open and Eddie appeared, all bundled up in an oversized Eskimo coat, and Richie felt a Certain Warmth that had nothing to do with the air vents blowing heat in his face.

The warmth intensified when Eddie opened the passenger door and threw himself into the seat next to Richie.

This definitely would be _way_ cooler on a summer day. When the convertible's top was down, it looked fucking rad. That effect was ruined the second the top went _up_ because Richie's dad—despite his random longing to feel "cool" again—completely neglected to pick a _good_ convertible color like red or yellow. The car was fucking black, so when Richie drove it with the top rolled up, it just looked like a plain old regular black car. Like something that belonged to a boring old dude—or Stan, who was headed _straight_ for the retirement home after high school and would insist that _Black isn't boring, Richie. Without black, there would be no contrast!_

Good ol' Stan. So wise and _so_ fucking old.

As soon as Eddie sat down, he stared straight ahead and spoke in this completely flat, dead voice. "I think I'm going to puke."

"Probably from kissing your mom."

" _No,_ Richie, I mean it. This is insane. My mom doesn't even know I have a driver's license. Once she finds out I can drive _and_ sees me behind the wheel, she could like, go into shock and have a heart attack. Or a stroke! Did you know that stress can increase your risk of stroke by thirty percent? I read that the other day in _Prevention_ magazine. Thirty percent!"

"Come on, Eddie. If that's true, then _you_ would have had a stroke a million years ago. Don't worry about your mom. All I have to do is get her in the right mood and she'll be too fucking _busy_ to stress over you."

"Gross," said Eddie, but he managed to crack a smile. _Success._

Richie hit the gas and tore the Fuck Out of There.

The whole triumph of leaving-Mrs.-K-in-the-dust was short-lived, though. As soon as he hit the end of Eddie's street and turned the corner, Eddie said, "Pull over. I'm driving."

"Wait, what?"

"Pull. _Over_ ," Eddie repeated. "I'm driving!"

"Dude, no. This is my dad's car."

"And you want to bring it back in one piece, don't you? No offense, Richie, but if I'm traveling out of town with you, I would feel ten times safer if _I_ was behind the wheel. I mean, I've seen _License to Drive_. How do I know you didn't pull a Corey Haim and have been faking your license this whole time?"

Richie _did_ pull over, mostly to keep himself from losing control of the wheel. " _What?_ Of course my license is real!"

"Yeah, probably about as real as your fake I.D.," said Eddie.

"It's probably more real than your mom's tits!"

Eddie bunched his hands into little fists—impressive, since he was wearing thick gloves—then slowly let his hands unfurl. "Okay, Rich. I don't want to argue with you. There are too many factors against you, anyway. Like the fact that you don't have your own car. I know there's a damn good reason for that. And you _did_ have to take your driving test three times until you finally— _supposedly_ —passed it! And that was just over the summer. _I've_ had my license for two years and I've been driving for three and a half! So you either let me behind the wheel or I'll find the nearest bus stop and risk all the germs of public transportation, because it's way less risky than letting _your_ inexperienced ass chauffeur me around!"

Richie had to _really_ struggle to respond to that one. Mainly because he always felt like he had died and gone straight to heaven every time Eddie went on one of his little rants. Like, Richie was pretty sure he could get off on that shit. He was always afraid of popping a boner when Eddie was all, _Oh no, that's full of germs!_ or _This isn't good for me!_ or _All the medical journals say that Blah gives you a 90% chance of developing Blah Blah Blah!_

But then all he had to do was think of Mrs. K (the Ultimate Boner Killer) in order to stop a potential party in his pants.

"All right, Eds. Don't have a cow, man," said Richie, in his awesome Bart Simpson impression. "We'll switch seats."

" _Thank_ you," Eddie huffed at him.

It was crazy how two little boring-as-fuck words could take Richie _so_ close to Boner City. _Just think of Mrs. K,_ he thought as he got out of the driver's seat, ignition still running, and swapped places with Eddie. _I bet she watches TV in her panties when nobody's home. She probably looks like a sexy elephant._

"What are you smirking at?" Eddie demanded, catching Richie in the middle of his Anti-Wet Dream.

"I was thinking how pissed my dad's going to be if you run into a telephone pole," said Richie.

"I'm _not_ going to run into a telephone pole. That must be what _you_ did when you failed your first driving test."

It was actually a mailbox, but Richie didn't correct Eddie. He was too distracted by the wonderful-terrible Warmth that filled him at the sight of Eddie behind the wheel. Eddie looked like he fucking _belonged_ there. He had always wanted to drive, ever since he and Richie were little kids rolling Hot Wheels along the floor of Eddie's room. Mrs. K didn't want him to, of course, just like she never wanted Eddie to do anything. She got her Godzilla-sized panties all in a twist at the very _idea_ of her delicate little Eddie-Bear taking Driver's Ed. It was always the same bullshit: he wasn't _ready_ , he could get _hurt_ , he really didn't _need_ to drive until college.

Richie knew the real reason, though. Eddie never mentioned it, but Richie was pretty damn sure _he_ knew it too. Driving meant growing up. It meant freedom. It meant that one day, if Eddie _really_ wanted to, he could hop in his car and never look back.

Not that Eddie ever would, as long as _Mommy_ kept casting her spell on him, but he did become rebellious enough to get his license behind her back. During their freshman and sophomore years, Eddie snuck off to the Hanlon farm and took driving lessons from Mike, who had been cruising the farm in his dad's old truck since he was twelve. The day after his sixteenth birthday, Eddie secretly earned his driver's license and now, two years later, he and Richie were headed out to Bangor to pick up an old Buick from Eddie's aunt.

Richie couldn't remember which aunt, exactly. The way Eddie described them, all three of his unmarried, overweight, overindulgent aunts tended to blur together.

"Hey, Eds," said Richie, opening the glove box to see if his dad had _any_ tapes that didn't Suck. "Which aunt are we seeing again? Is she the one who's got twenty-eight cats?"

"Aunt Linda has five cats, Richie," said Eddie. " _Five_. Who the hell has twenty-eight cats?"

"Dude, I don't know. What's the difference between five and twenty-eight? Either way she's a crazy cat lady."

"She's not a crazy cat lady. Aunt Linda is lonely and has a bad hip and doesn't get out much, and she chooses to take comfort in feline companionship. It's very common and perfectly normal for an older woman who lives alone. Do _not_ give her shit for it. In fact, I guess now would be a good time to go over the full list of things you shouldn't do when we get to Aunt Linda's house."

 _Looks like Boner City's on the horizon_ , Richie thought.

"Rule One," said Eddie, sounding very authoritative and grown-up as he made a left turn out of the neighborhood. "Don't draw attention to the cat thing. If you do, Aunt Linda might think you got the crazy cat lady idea from _me_ , and then she might change her mind about the car. Rule Two: Do not—and I repeat, DO NOT—use profanity under her roof. She still thinks I'm five and she'll probably always think I'm five. If she hears one little _hell_ come out of my mouth or yours, it might actually kill her."

"And yet she's giving you a car."

"I know. I don't think it's fully registered that _I'm_ going to be the one driving it." Eddie paused at a stop light, fingers tapping restlessly against the wheel. "Maybe she thinks I want the car just to like, _have_ it. Like it's another one of my Hot Wheels I'm collecting." The light turned green and he was off again, guiding them expertly toward the Derry city limits. "Anyway, Rule Three: No jokes about my mom, obviously. Rule Four: Don't make any jokes at all to Aunt Linda. She won't get them. Rule Five: Don't ever diss Rod Stewart in front of my aunt. She has a huge crush on him."

Richie snapped the glove box shut. His dad _really_ needed some new cassette tapes to match the car. "What the fuck, seriously? Why?"

"I don't know! She just _does!_ If she puts on one of his records or something, just don't say anything."

"Sure, sure. I'll tell her I'm his biggest fan."

"No! Don't mention Rod Stewart _at all!_ " Eddie accidentally smacked the horn in his agitation and the car ahead of him honked back. It was fucking hilarious. "If you engage my Aunt Linda in _any_ conversation involving Rod Stewart, she'll tell you _all_ about the time she saw him in concert back in 1979, and how he was singing that stupid song— _if you think I'm sexy_ or whatever—and she threw her underwear onto the stage. She will _describe_ this to you, Richie, in _detail_. Don't provoke her!"

"Doesn't she think you're five, though?"

"Don't ask me how this woman operates! I love my Aunt Linda—I really do—but she must have done too many drugs in the sixties or something. Also, she's a hoarder. Did I mention that yet? She has a hoarding problem. There might be piles of shit in her living room, like, stacked up to the ceiling, probably. Please try to ignore it. That's Rule Six, by the way. So moving on to Rule Seven: If she offers you any baked goods, tell her you _just_ ate already! Try not to gag when I tell you this, but she lets all five of her cats roam freely around her kitchen. That means _all_ of her food is contaminated. Do you know where indoor cats stick their paws? In the litter box, where all their _shit_ goes! And then they track their shit-paws all over the kitchen counters and the bowls and the utensils— _everywhere!_ So you're basically eating shit. Not to mention the fact that cats shed like fucking crazy, so _that_ goes in the food too!"

_Boner, boner, go away  
_ _Come again another day_

Preferably when Richie wasn't seated _right_ next to Eddie in his dad's convertible. Holy shit, it was agony trying not to lose his mind while Eddie launched into one of his classic Health and Safety Rants™. It only took about half an hour to get to Bangor, if the traffic was good, but this trip was going to be really fucking long if Eddie spent the whole time awakening Feelings that Richie preferred to keep deeply buried.

Eddie kept on talking about his aunt's contaminated kitchen for another fifty years—maybe longer—while Richie pretended Mrs. K was the one who threw her underwear at Rod Stewart. How fucking big _were_ her panties? They probably resembled a parachute landing on stage.

Richie kind of hated that he did this to himself, but it was better than blurting out something Insane, like, _Hey Eddie, did you know I've been in love with you since we were little kids? Isn't that fucking crazy?_

And then Eddie would probably crash out of Pure Shock, but it couldn't possibly hurt any worse than the stupid, stubborn ache Richie got when he looked at Eddie and Felt Things that you weren't supposed to _feel_ for another dude. It wasn't like Richie hadn't tried to erase these feelings. Oh boy, he had _tried_. Over the last few years, he had gone through girl after girl, picking them up and trying them out like he was shopping for new glasses. None of them worked. It was always, _Oh, this chick gives terrible head_ and _This girl isn't my type_ and _This one doesn't laugh at my jokes._ He was fucking Goldilocks playing the field, searching for the girl who was Just Right, but she wasn't a girl at all and it Fucking Hurt.

"—and I swear, Richie," Eddie continued, "if you ingest even _one_ bite of anything my aunt has made, I will not hesitate to give you the Heimlich Maneuver because there's no way in hell I'm letting you swallow poison—"

Until Richie couldn't take it anymore and switched on the radio.

" _But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo_  
_What the hell am I doing here?  
__I don't belong here."_

Great. Thanks, Radiohead. That was _really_ going to help him feel better.

Eddie turned the music down. "Were you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, your aunt's a brain-damaged cat lady and I can't do or say or _eat_ anything or else you'll have a heart attack and won't get the car."

"I'm just nervous," Eddie admitted. He bit his bottom lip, staring ahead at the road stretched before them. "I know I'll get the car— _that's_ not a problem. I'm the only kid on my mom's side of the family, so her sisters fucking live to spoil me. But once I get that car, Richie, that's _it_. It's final. And I don't know if I can actually drive it home. My mom will think I betrayed her. She might never speak to Aunt Linda again after this!"

"Your mom can eat a dick," said Richie. "She doesn't fucking own you. You're eighteen! If it gets really bad and she starts crying and shit, you can spend the night at my house, okay?"

"Okay," said Eddie.

He turned his head, just for a moment, to offer Richie an anxious little smile.

Richie was Fucked.

*

Halfway to Bangor, they stopped at a McDonald's drive-through. Eddie had developed a phobia of going inside fast food places, ever since they were fifteen and Eddie accidentally sat in a milkshake puddle that got spilled in a booth at Burger King. The back of his shorts were stained strawberry pink. Since that Dark Day, Eddie declared that fast food restaurants were disgusting places only fit for toddlers and animals.

Richie preferred the drive-through anyway. It gave him the perfect opportunity to practice his Voices on people.

Lately he'd been trying out a Surfer Dude Voice, like Sean Penn in _Fast Times at Ridgemont High_. When Eddie pulled up at the drive-through to give their order (one Big Mac, two milkshakes, and a large salad), Richie tried to climb over Eddie's lap so he could order his Big Mac like a Surfer Dude, but Eddie shoved him away and rolled up the window.

"Come on, Eddie! I have to start practicing my act on the public!"

"What act? Your entire repertoire consists of random voices and mom jokes. And _my_ mom stars in every single one."

"She's an easy target! Once I get out of Derry, I can come up with new material. Just watch me!"

"I fucking hope so, Richie," said Eddie, but there wasn't a sarcastic edge to his words. He sounded Fucking Serious. "If the whole comedian thing doesn't work out, you'd better figure out a back-up plan. You're way smarter than most people think you are. I know you could do just about anything if you applied yourself."

"Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Dad," said Richie, playing it _fucking cool_ while Eddie grabbed their food from the drive-through window, though inside he was dying all over again.

He knew Eddie was right. (About the back-up plan, at least. Not his jokes. He could totally come up with jokes that didn't revolve around Eddie's mom!) Richie couldn't expect to go out into the cold, judgmental world and sell himself without something solid to fall back on. He had already agreed to go to the Derry community college with Eddie after they graduated high school. It wasn't like either of them had much of a choice in this matter. Eddie _had_ to go to school close to home, or else Mrs. K really _would_ have a stroke, and Richie had to go where Eddie went because the thought of leaving him was almost physically painful.

Eddie parked behind McDonald's and the two of them ate in the car. This totally violated Eddie's sense of Car Etiquette, but Richie assured him that the car wasn't going to die if they accidentally dripped a little milkshake on the seats.

(It sure left a suspicious-looking white spot, though. Maybe vanilla was a bad choice.)

They got back on the road and Eddie spent the rest of the trip talking faster and faster, telling Richie _all_ about some article he read in one of the ten thousand health magazines he collected. Richie tried his best to make him laugh. Make him let go of those nerves that had him wound up so tightly. Eddie _did_ laugh a few times. Nothing much—just a high-strung little _heh heh_ now and then—but Richie felt like every time Eddie laughed, a new star appeared in the sky or some bullshit. Eddie didn't laugh nearly as often as he should, which was a fucking Crime, so every time Richie got him to loosen up a little, he considered it a victory against Mrs. K and all her scare tactics.

The trip ended too soon for both of them. Suddenly there was a sign welcoming them to Bangor, and Eddie had to pull over to use his inhaler.

Which was pretty fucking weird, since Eddie had literally been sitting on his ass for the last half hour. There was no way he could have been exerting himself, but Richie had learned long ago that Eddie's asthma worked in mysterious ways. It always came out of fucking nowhere when you least expected it. Like, one moment he and Eddie would be chilling at the beginning of math class, bickering as usual, but once class started and their teacher handed out that month's Big Test, Eddie turned into the Mayor of Wheezerville. He didn't have to run or walk or even _move_ for his lungs to go crazy, yet Eddie could bike all over Richie's neighborhood without having a single asthma attack.

Fucking _bizarre_.

Eddie stuck his inhaler back in the pocket of his puffy Eskimo coat. He took in a gulp of air and gripped the steering wheel tightly, eyes locked on the cloudy day set before him.

"I'm okay," Eddie muttered, as if reassuring himself. "I'm _okay_."

He hit the gas and continued to drive.

Eddie's Aunt Linda lived in one of those sleepy little neighborhoods full of lawn gnomes and wind chimes and old people with tiny lapdogs. The kind of neighborhood where Nothing Fun Ever Happened and you couldn't play loud music in your car without feeling like the world's biggest jackass. So Eddie and Richie rolled up to Aunt Linda's house in silence. It was like Eddie _knew_ he had to switch the radio off—even though it wasn't even loud—in order to avoid violating some important neighborhood code.

His aunt lived in a little white cookie cutter house, complete with a wind chime _and_ two gnomes on the front lawn. The gnomes were both clutching gardening tools and looked like they were thinking _really_ hard on the best way to murder you with them.

Eddie knocked on the front door. Some tiny little dog in the next house immediately started yapping.

It took a really fucking long time for Aunt Linda to open the door. When she finally did, she had to yell, "Don't let the cat out!" and Eddie was forced to hold back the black-and-white furball who was trying to escape.

Aunt Linda couldn't catch the cat herself because she was too busy holding onto her walker. ( _Because of her bad hip,_ Richie wisely reminded himself. He _did_ listen to Eddie.) Aunt Linda resembled Mrs. K, but with a friendlier face. She was older, too. The walker and the cats definitely gave off Old Lady Vibes, and those vibes intensified when she actually grabbed Eddie's _face_ and pinched his fucking cheek.

"Look how big my little Eddie-pie's gotten!" she cried. "I swear you get more handsome every time I see you!"

Somehow Eddie managed to glare at Richie—a truly scary expression that said, _Don't you fucking laugh at me! I swear, Richie, I will end you!—_ without Aunt Linda seeing it and going into hysterics, or whatever the hell she did when sweet little baby Eddie proved that he was older than five.

"And how nice of your friend to drive you here!" said Aunt Linda, once Richie had been introduced. She tried pulling Richie into a hug, which was awkward as fuck because she squished him against her walker. _Ouch._ "Are you boys hungry at all? I baked some sugar cookies this morning!"

"Oh, no thank you, Aunt Linda!" Eddie said quickly. "Both of us _just_ ate. I'm sure the cookies are delicious, though!"

"They _are_. Let me know if you get hungry! I'm still not convinced Sonia's feeding you properly. Nobody in our family ever got sick _half_ as often as you do and I'm _sure_ your diet has something to do with it. I do worry about you, Eddie. Last time I talked to your mom, she said you stayed home sick _three_ times so far since school started! She doesn't feed you enough, honey. I've been telling her for years! The cold air just seeps _right_ into your thin little bones!"

Richie wondered if you could spontaneously combust from trying not to laugh. He was going to _explode_. He tried to turn some of his suppressed laughter into a fake coughing fit, realized his mistake—this was _Eddie's_ family, after all—and immediately transformed his coughs into a bunch of idiotic cooing over the cat wandering nearby.

This gave Aunt Linda the opportunity to introduce Richie to _all_ her cats. She urged Richie and Eddie to remove their coats and take a seat on the couch—an ugly orange thing that should have perished with the seventies—then brought out all five of her Precious Little Furballs. The cats were named Buttercream, Strawberry, Cinnamon, Peppermint, and Betty Crocker. (Seriously. What the _fuck_?) They used the house as their personal playground, since Aunt Linda _did_ have towering piles of shit everywhere, just as Eddie promised, and these piles were ideal hiding places for cats. One crate was filled with newspapers that definitely should have been burned decades ago, along with the ugly couch. It was like this woman _never_ threw any of her shit away.

Richie was kind of hoping they could just pop into the house, say hi, take the car, and then leave, but _oh no_ , it couldn't be _that_ simple. Aunt Linda wanted to sit on her ass and yak with Eddie like she hadn't seen him in twenty years. It was all the usual bullshit your relatives just _had_ to ask you, like: _How's school going? What's your favorite class? Are you looking forward to college next year? What are you going to study?_ Blah blah blah fucking _blah._

And then came the Dreaded Question:

"Eddie-pie, do you have a girlfriend yet?"

And Richie almost choked on his own spit. Eddie looked like he was ready to choke too. His eyes got all wide, just like they did whenever he discovered he was All Out of hand sanitizer.

"Uh, no," said Eddie. He was seated right next to Richie on the couch, so Richie could practically _feel_ his embarrassment. "Not yet. I want to focus on my studies."

"That's a good boy. Your studies _are_ important." Aunt Linda pulled one of the cats (Cinnamon?) onto her wide lap and started scratching its ears. "My goodness, though. I can't believe the questions I've been asking you! Sometimes I look at you, Eddie, and I imagine you're still Sonia's little boy, hardly bigger than Peppermint here. Yet here you are, getting ready for college soon! It almost breaks my heart to think about it."

"It's not like Eds is going very far," said Richie, giving Eddie a little nudge with his elbow. "Right, Eds? I heard community college is basically High School Part Two. Same old bull—uh, _bullseye,_ right?"

"You know there's a perfectly good university right here in Bangor," said Aunt Linda. "You could still live at home, Eddie, if you don't mind driving a bit. Speaking of driving, you'd like to have a look at the car, wouldn't you? Let's head on out to the garage and I'll give you the keys."

 _Fucking finally_.

It took Aunt Linda about forty years to show them the garage, of course, with her bad hip and everything. There was a cat flap built into the door and the second they entered the garage, Richie knew This was the home of the litter box that terrified Eddie so much. It was also home to _more_ piles of shit. Racks and shelves against every wall, reaching for the ceiling, stuffed with enough crap to fill several thrift stores. It was a miracle Richie could even _see_ the car parked in the middle of it all.

When he did spot the car, he wanted to laugh, because it was the very definition of an Old Lady Car.

Aunt Linda's car was a 1978 Buick, the same burgundy color as the outdated rug in her living room. You could definitely tell the car was used, but it wasn't scratched-up enough to be a total eyesore. When Richie looked closely, he could see a few dirty paw prints left on the hood.

Eddie was gazing at the car like it was made out of Solid Fucking Gold.

The only time Richie saw _that_ amount of worship on anyone's face was when Ben gazed at Beverly. Eddie had that _same_ lovestruck, melted chocolate softness in his eyes, like he was ready to get down on his knees and ask that stupid old car to marry him. What a beautiful wedding _that_ would be. _Edward Kaspbrak, do you take Old Lady Buick to be your lawfully wedded car? I DO!_

"I know it's not a very 'cool' car," Aunt Linda apologized. "It's certainly not young anymore, but it runs in perfectly good condition. You shouldn't have any problems with it."

"It's beautiful," said Eddie, still gazing at the car like it would solve all the world's problems. "Aunt Linda, are you _sure_ I can have this?"

"Of course, sweetie. I hardly ever go out anymore. That old thing was just gathering dust in here! I've got a wonderful neighbor across the street—you've met Mrs. Sidney, haven't you?—who can drive me to my doctor appointments, so don't you worry about me, Eddie. I'll feel much better knowing that old car's finally getting some air and sunlight."

"Yeah, Eddie, you can pick up Stan and take him to bingo night," said Richie. "You guys will fit right in."

But Eddie seemed immune to Richie's joke. Which was just— _fine_. Whatever. Richie was _not_ going to get jealous over a stupid old lady car.

It was hard to stay annoyed, anyway, because Eddie was really fucking _happy_. Like, actually carefree and normal, without worrying about disinfecting the car's interior or scrubbing cat germs off the hood. Eddie looked the way Richie always imagined he would look if he hadn't been raised by a fucking basket case like Mrs. K. Like he could shrug off all the discomforts of the world and just live his fucking life without sanitizing every square inch of it. As much as Richie secretly loved all the Paranoid Germaphobe Shit ( _major_ turn-on), he wished that Happy Eddie was here to stay forever. Even though it made Richie's insides _ache_ so hard he could barely stand it, the ache was fucking worth it to see Eddie so relaxed.

Aunt Linda handed over the keys and Eddie took the Buick for a test drive down the street. It was probably the most excitement the neighborhood had seen in years.

The car obviously met his expectations, because Eddie was still visibly happy when he popped out of the driver's seat and hugged Aunt Linda, acting like a little kid on Christmas Day who found _all_ the toys he wanted under the tree. He must have forgotten that Mrs. K was back home in Derry, waiting to implode when she discovered that her delicate little baby boy had his own Set of Wheels. Richie didn't remind him.

He almost wished he had, though. When it came time for them to leave, Richie got into his dad's convertible and Eddie got into the Buick, and it took a ridiculous effort for Richie to start the engine and _go_. He had the crazy urge to block the street and keep Eddie from leaving that sleepy, gnome-infested neighborhood. Maybe it was better if the two of them stayed right there, with all of Aunt Linda's ugly furniture and weirdly-named cats and piles of shit. The moment they returned home, Happy Eddie would disappear and Mama's Boy Eddie would take his place. _Let's just stay here, Eds. Fuck Derry and fuck your mom—and not in the fun way._

But it was too late. Eddie waved goodbye to Aunt Linda, who was watching from her front lawn, and took off in the direction of home. Richie had no choice but to follow him.

It was a lonely drive.

*

They ended up at Richie's house first, by mutual agreement. Richie had expected an empty house, since both his parents had gone out to lunch and a movie in his mom's car. Of course, he _also_ expected the visit with Aunt Linda to be brief, so when he pulled up at the house and saw his mom's car in the driveway, he knew he'd have to come up with a damn good story or else he was Majorly Fucked.

Okay, maybe not majorly. His parents were pretty cool most of the time. They usually didn't punish him a whole lot. Probably because they'd spent the last almost-eighteen years in constant bewilderment, wondering how this strange child ended up in their house. A mistake at the hospital? Perhaps he was an _alien_? Who knows? They were cool, though. And they fucking _loved_ Eddie, just like every single old person on the face of the earth seemed to love Eddie. It was because Eddie was so good at tricking authority figures into thinking he was Polite and Responsible. He always knew _just_ what to say to them.

This skill came in handy, since Richie had a Hell of a Lot of Explaining to do.

First, he had to confess to Eddie that he borrowed his dad's car without permission. ("So I need you to sell him a really good sob story, Eds. My parents will eat that shit up if it comes from you.") And _then_ he had to convince his mom and dad that he took the car with only the Best Intentions, while Eddie—who started out all sulky, but quickly morphed into a Model Citizen when he greeted Richie's parents—backed him up with a long, sad story about his lack of transportation options. ("Taking the bus is simply out of the question, Mr. Tozier. Once, when I was little, I contracted a virus from sitting too close to a woman with a bad cough. The risks are just _too_ great. Is that a new shirt, by the way? I swear it makes you look ten years younger.")

Richie's parents bought the story. They thought Eddie was generally pretty tragic, anyway. Richie _might_ have spent the last several years exaggerating Eddie's health issues so they would pity him and therefore grant Eddie all kinds of privileges, which were then granted to Richie by extension. Your parents don't want your favorite friend sleeping over on a school night? Tell them he was hospitalized with a deadly bladder infection when he was seven. Then it's party time!

Of course, Richie's dad _did_ have to go out and inspect every inch of the convertible, including the suspicious spot where Richie dripped milkshake on the seat. Richie must have done a damn good job wiping that shit off, though, because his dad admitted the car was in perfect shape.

"All thanks to Eddie's good influence, I'm sure," said Richie's dad, clapping Eddie on the shoulder. Sudden panic flashed across his face. "Are you okay there, Eddie? I should have been more careful."

( _Eddie's broken ELEVEN bones in his body,_ twelve-year-old Richie told his parents once. _He gets aches and pains all over the place, all the time!_ He and Eddie were allowed to stay up late and eat _all_ the ice cream they wanted that night.)

"I'm fine," said Eddie.

But he didn't look fine at all, and it had nothing to do with getting clapped on the shoulder. Eddie's eyes were big and worried. He glanced at his watch.

"I should get home. My mom will be expecting me."

For the second time that day, he pulled out his inhaler and sent a blast of medicine down his throat. Eddie took a deep breath, still wide-eyed, and gave himself another blast for good measure,

"Eddie, are you okay?" said Richie. "Maybe I'll drive."

Eddie shook his head. He took another deep breath and put the inhaler away. "I don't need you to drive me. In fact, I think it's better if I go home alone."

"Dude, no way. What if your mom freaks out?"

"She'll freak out even more if _you're_ there. Can't you picture it? She'll think _you_ pressured me into getting the car and next thing you know, she'll have a restraining order against you!"

"That's bullshit. You're an adult now."

"I know." Eddie stood up straighter and suddenly all his worries seemed to melt away. He had a determined Look on his face—the one he got when he made up his mind to fucking _do_ something or perish in the attempt. "I appreciate your support, Rich, but I've got to do this on my own. If you don't hear from me in the next twenty-four hours, send for reinforcements."

Richie had no choice but to let Eddie go. It was either that or come dangerously close to spilling out some of the Feelings he'd been keeping locked up all day.

"If your mom gives you shit about the car, just remind her that you've got a spacious backseat and a friend with a big dick!" Richie told Eddie as he walked him outside. "That should change her mind _real_ fucking fast."

"Go blow yourself, Richie," said Eddie, but he was smiling _and_ no Feelings managed to escape, so Richie felt pretty successful.

Also, it started showering right when Eddie drove off, so all those paw prints on the Buick were bound to wash away. A sure sign that everything was going to be fine. Totally Fucking Fine.

It took a scary amount of willpower not to jump in the convertible and follow Eddie, though. Richie stood in his front yard without a hood or umbrella, getting wet while he watched Eddie's car grow smaller and smaller until it vanished down the road. When he finally trudged back into the house, he practiced his Surfer Dude Voice on his mom, but the attempt was half-hearted and his mom didn't get his Voices anyway.

So he tried calling Bill, but then he remembered that Bill was out of town with his family for the weekend. So then he tried Stan the Man. Stan, the lucky bastard, had his very own phone in his bedroom, and he picked up on the first ring.

"Uris residence. This is Stanley. May I ask who I'm speaking with?"

"Stan, you could easily become your own secretary someday. Did you know that?"

"Thanks, Richie. I'll keep that in mind. Did Eddie get his car?"

"Yeah, it's a total grandma magnet. You should borrow it next time you pick up your girlfriend from the retirement home."

Even though Richie stretched the kitchen phone cord as _far_ from his mom as possible, she could still hear him from the kitchen and gave him a _What-the-Fuck?_ face.

Stan was probably making the same face on the other end of the line. "Okay, Richie. Thank you, _again_. I will definitely keep that in mind as well. How did Eddie's mom react?"

Richie clenched his hand around the curly plastic phone cord. "I have no fucking idea."

"She didn't say anything?"

"I never _saw_ her. Me and Eddie drove straight to my house after picking up the car, and then Eddie put on his Brave Face™—you know the one—and decided to be a fucking hero and march off to battle all alone. He's probably become a prisoner of war as we speak."

"Do you want to go check on him, then?"

"No way. Don't make it _weird_ , Stan. Who do you think you are, his babysitter? Eddie can take care of himself."

"I know that," said Stan. Did he sound _smug_? The bastard. "But if the whole thing really bothers you, we can always swing by Eddie's house. You know, just to make sure he's alive."

"Dude, why do you always try to uplift people by being morbid? Morbid shit is the opposite of uplifting. I know it's probably because you've got one foot in the grave—being ninety-five years old and all—but seriously. Not helpful."

"Fine. We can swing by and see if he's having a tea party with his mother."

"Nah, Eddie's fine. Don't worry so much, Stan."

"Who said I was worried?" said Stan in a voice even drier than Mrs. K's vagina. "I've got to go, Richie, but I'll catch up with you tomorrow, okay? Talk to you later."

"Hasta la vista, baby," said Richie, and hung up.

Damn, that was close.

He loved Stan like a brother—he really fucking did—which sometimes made it Terrifying to talk to him. Terrifying, as in terrifyingly _easy_ to spill his guts out. Stan was Richie's oldest friend. He'd been putting up with Richie's shit since kindergarten and nothing Richie did had managed to scare him off yet. There had been countless times when Richie was _this close_ to breaking down and finally saying something to Stan. Something along the lines of, _Hey, Stan. So I like girls perfectly fine. But also guys. One guy in particular. Maybe you've heard of him? His name's Eddie._

But something always paralyzed Richie before he could get the words out—which was a real rarity. Nothing like Good Old-Fashioned Fear to freeze your bad habit of running your mouth.

The fact that Stan knew Richie So Fucking Well did not help lessen this fear. Like, there were times when Richie seriously wondered if Stan _knew_ it wasn't just _Playboy_ he jacked off to at night. Not that Stan had ever caught him jacking off or anything. Wouldn't _that_ be fucked up? But if anyone was capable of detecting Richie's deeply-guarded Feelings™, it was most likely Stan the Bird-Watching Man, with his rad observation skills. You had to have some major fucking patience to sit around for hours and spy on birds the way Stan did. It made Richie wonder how much Stan noticed when he observed his friends.

_Look carefully! When Richie's in his natural habitat, you can see a rare Display of Affection make its appearance as he approaches Eddie. It's incredibly fascinating._

"Better jot that down in your nature book, Bird Boy," Richie muttered to himself, but it didn't help him feel any better.

*

The evening passed in Never-Ending Agony.

Richie did not hear from Eddie. He finally broke down and called the Kaspbrak house, but nobody picked up the phone, which only increased his suspicion that Eddie and Mrs. K must have killed each other over the Buick. Either that, or Mrs. K had forced Eddie into the nearest mental hospital. That was also possible.

The just-barely-rational part of Richie's brain kept telling him to drive the fuck over there already and see for himself. He could borrow his mom's car this time. She would _totally_ understand if he told her that Eddie was in the ER getting revived after a severe allergic reaction. (Richie was _pretty_ sure he hadn't used that story yet. At least not recently.) But then the Petrified Little Wuss part of his brain—the part that froze up in terror when the words _I love Eddie_ dared to take shape—warned him to stay put. Eddie wasn't a little fucking kid. Richie didn't need to _worry_ about him. And he definitely didn't need to give anyone the impression that he _was_ worried.

So here he was in the middle of the night, restlessly tucked up in bed, feeling Fucking Embarrassed over his own inability to fall asleep already. What was the worst that could really happen? So Mrs. K didn't want her fragile little baby to drive. Big deal. She probably yelled and cried and then ate herself into a coma afterwards. It was fine. Eddie was probably in his own bed that very moment, having some bitchin' dreams about zooming all over Derry in his old lady—

_Tap tap._

What the fuck was that?

_Tap tap tap._

Something was quietly knocking against Richie's bedroom door.

Well, if anyone was trying to rob, kidnap, or murder him, at least it would take his mind off of Eddie for a while.

Richie flicked on his bedroom lamp, found himself wishing he was _slightly_ athletic so he could at least have a baseball bat lying around, and slowly creaked his bedroom door open. _Come and get me, bitch!_

But of course it was Eddie on the other side of the door, dressed in the same polo shirt he wore to Aunt Linda's. He looked more swallowed-up than ever by his puffy Eskimo coat.

"I had to get out of my house," said Eddie. The words tumbled nervously out of his mouth. "This is okay, right? I used the key under the doormat, like you always said I could, but I thought I should at least _tell_ you before I go ahead and crash on your couch."

"Dude, I can't believe your mom didn't literally murder you," Richie blurted out. "I was expecting to see your mutilated body all over tomorrow's news."

" _What?_ " Eddie yelped, then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. "Shit. I don't want to wake your parents up."

"Are you kidding? My parents would adopt you if they could. They'd be _thrilled_ to hear your screechy little voice waking them at fuck o'clock at night."

"I don't have a screechy voice!"

"Your mom sure does when she visits me at night. Last time I made her scream so loud, our neighbors called the cops."

"They probably charged you with elder abuse," said Eddie. He seemed to realize he was still in the doorway and shuffled forward. The puffy sleeve of his jacket _swished_ as it rubbed against the open door. "Thanks for, uh, letting me stay here, Rich. You're a lifesaver. You have no idea."

"Where's your stuff?" asked Richie. Eddie had walked into his bedroom with only the clothes on his back. "In your old lady car?"

"What? No. I'm not running away, dipshit. I'm just spending the night."

"So I guess your mom didn't like the car?"

"That's an understatement. She acted like she'd been shot when she saw it. She kept asking, _What else have you been hiding from me, Eddie?_ over and over again. She tore my fucking room apart looking for—I don't know—drugs and booze? Porn? She searched _everywhere_. I know she's my mom and she worries about me and she has a right to know what's going on, but—but this was too much, Richie! It was _too much_. All I did was bring home a car and she acts like I've been living a double life or something! You should have heard the way she yelled at Aunt Linda when she called her up. And to top it off, she went and called my Aunt Maeve and Aunt Janice, who had _nothing_ to do with this, and yelled at them too! If she ever does find out any big secrets about me, I'm screwed. I am fucking _screwed_."

Eddie had worked himself into a frenzy during this speech. He paced around Richie's room, waving his arms, doing all those little _Eddie_ things that wreaked havoc on Richie's brain. A half-hearted joke flitted across his thoughts— _Not as screwed as your mom last night—_ but it died before it reached his mouth.

"Eds, calm down," said Richie. Somehow he ended up placing his hands on Eddie's puffy turquoise shoulders. "And lose the jacket already. You're _here,_ okay? You're free from your mom, however long you want to be. I wasn't kidding when I said my parents would adopt you. They'll let you live in our basement, rent-free, _forever_ if you want."

Eddie nodded, breathing hard, then shrugged away from Richie so he could get his inhaler. A couple of blasts later, he removed his jacket and hung it from the empty hook on the back of Richie's door—which Stan was _always_ trying to get Richie to use. Richie liked to leave his shit on the floor on purpose when Stan came over, just so Stan could give him that long-suffering Look and then patiently hang up his jacket for him.

"You're right," said Eddie, still breathing a little hard. He looked unusually small, now that he no longer resembled a puffy turquoise Eskimo. "I'm _free_." He seemed a little dazed, blinking nervously around the room like he'd been transported there by aliens. "I think I'm, uh, going to head downstairs and watch TV for a bit. I don't think I can sleep yet. Is that okay?"

It was more than okay.

Suddenly Richie felt ten years old again, the age he had been when Eddie slept over at his house for the First Time. Even back then, before Richie fully understood why getting close to Eddie felt like an electric shock, that first sleepover had been _significant_. It was nothing like all the times Bill and Stan had stayed over. Having Eddie right there in his house, spending the night in a sleeping bag, felt as important as a birthday or Christmas. And Richie remembered thinking, as a little baby ten-year-old, that he could do this with Eddie every night and never get tired of it.

He guessed it was pretty fucking crazy that he _still_ felt that way. Maybe he always would.

Since Eddie only brought his Visiting-Aunt-Linda outfit, Richie let him borrow a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a Bart Simpson T-shirt. Eddie made a face at the shirt, but it was clean and made him look fifty times more relaxed than his stuffy polo shirts ever did. Richie liked to think that no one, not even Eddie, could possibly get stressed out with Bart Simpson emblazoned on their chest. _Cool your jets, man_ and _Don't have a cow, man_ were literally his catch phrases. Pretty valid advice, if you asked Richie.

They made it down to the basement without waking Richie's parents and settled on the couch to watch TV. Maybe not _settled_ , exactly. Eddie planted himself on one side of the couch, sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open like he'd taken a shot of coffee. Richie hovered a Safe Distance away on the other side, wondering if it would be _fucking weird_ to set the remote right between them on the couch. That way, if he and Eddie just _happened_ to reach for the remote at the same time—

But in the end, he pussied out and left it on the coffee table.

"Remember when your mom wouldn't let you sleep over at anyone's house until you were in the double digits?" Richie asked while Eddie took the remote. "So as soon as you turned ten, I made you come over and built you a fucking pillow fort as a safety precaution."

"I remember my mom made me bring a first aid kit," said Eddie. He was flicking aimlessly through channels, eyes fixed on the glow of the screen. "And I had to call her every hour until I went to bed. _And_ give her a report of everything I ate. I'm surprised she didn't stay over with me."

"Oh man, too bad she didn't. She would have been my first wet dream."

"That is _so_ wrong."

"It was a badass pillow fort, though. I bet even Ben couldn't have done better."

"Seriously? That fort was tiny. The whole thing collapsed when you tried to crawl in next to me. Or did you forget that part?"

"Of course I remember," said Richie. Best Fucking Part of the whole evening. "But no one got hurt! That was the whole fucking point of a pillow fort, Eds. Pillows have never hurt anyone."

"You want to bet on it?"

Eddie launched a couch pillow at Richie and suddenly they were pillow-fighting like a couple of twelve-year-old girls at a slumber party. Eddie won, but only because he managed to knock Richie's glasses off and Richie couldn't fucking _see_ well enough to retaliate. They spent the next hour drinking Cokes (well, Coke for Richie and Perrier sparkling water for Eddie—the priss) and making fun of infomercials on TV. It occurred to Richie, as he sat a Safe Distance from Eddie on the couch, that it had been a while since the last time they _did this_. Just the two of them in Richie's basement, dicking around like kids. When was the last time it was Just Them down here? Seemed like every time Richie brought someone down to the basement, it was yet another girl to try and fix the Eddie-related _ache_ that constantly lived inside him.

Last time it was Julia from his English class. They smoked some weed she brought and compared notes for their upcoming test, and then she got bored and gave him a halfhearted BJ _right_ where Eddie was sitting. Shit. Why did he bring chicks down here in the first place? Why did he even bother? No matter what he did, he only wanted Eddie. It had _always_ been Eddie. There were times when Richie wanted to rip his own heart out of his chest so he couldn't fucking Feel anymore, but he had to face the facts. There was no getting away from this. Eddie had him by the balls—for all fucking eternity, probably—and didn't even _know_ it.

Richie must have been staring without meaning to, because Eddie turned to look at him and said, "What?"

 _I fucking love you,_ Richie didn't say.

"I still have my Ninja Turtles sleeping bag," he blurted out instead. "You can use it if the couch is too uncomfortable."

"Are you going to build me a pillow fort too?"

"No. Making friends with Ben kind of ruined that. I don't think I can build anything without hearing him in my head, politely criticizing me."

Richie didn't know what time it was, but he sensed it was pretty fucking late. By the time he got out his sleeping bag _(Turtle Power!)_ and dragged it down to the basement, Eddie was yawning and struggling to keep his head up. He barely lasted another five minutes. One moment Eddie was mumbling something about forgetting his toothbrush, the next moment he was slumped against the arm of the couch, oblivious to the ad on TV that promised a FREE GIFT if you called in the next ten minutes. _But wait, there's MORE—_

Richie shut off the TV and spent a solid minute torturing himself, staring at Eddie's sleeping face and wondering if he Dared to shift him into a more comfortable position. He almost pussied out—again—until he remembered that Eddie would probably wake up stiff from sleeping weird, and then Richie's mom would feel guilty, thinking Eddie might need spinal surgery or some shit, and it would really be _so_ much easier if Richie just sucked it up and put his hands on Eddie for five seconds.

So he did.

Only it was longer than five seconds. First he had to lift Eddie's legs onto the couch, so he was no longer in a sitting position. _Then_ he had to put a pillow under Eddie's head. And _then_ he had to tuck a bunch of blankets around him so he stayed warm during the night. There was one terrifying moment when Eddie seemed to _almost_ wake up. He clutched at Richie without opening his eyes and mumbled _Mommy?_ in the World's Sleepiest Voice, then went perfectly still.

Richie swore he might actually puke if he stared at Eddie any longer. Like all the emotions he'd been trying to suppress would come bursting out of him in a horrible, burning flood.

So he crawled into his sleeping bag and listened to Eddie breathe until he felt all right again.

*

Sometime at fuck o'clock in the morning, Richie woke from the jumbled mess of a dream to take a piss.

The sun hadn't come up yet, but he knew it was morning because he pulled on his glasses and pushed the tiny button on Eddie's watch that made the face light up. This was easy to do, since Eddie's wrist was dangling off the couch. All his blankets had spilled halfway off his body during the night, too. Richie tucked them back in, letting his hands linger on Eddie longer than necessary, and shuffled off to the bathroom.

When he came back, Eddie's wrist was tucked inside the blankets. The couch creaked a little as Eddie shifted and murmured, "Hey, Rich... you there?"

Richie froze. "Yeah, Eds. What's up?"

"Is my car still outside?"

"I'll go check."

This gave Richie the chance to get the fuck away from Eddie and privately freak out upstairs. He didn't _think_ Eddie was awake when Richie fixed his blankets. His voice sounded pretty fucking sleepy. It had that drunk-sounding, just-woke-up, slurry sort of heaviness. Anything that had happened in the last ten minutes could be a dream, for all Eddie knew.

"The car's still here," Richie reported after a brief trip upstairs. "Your mom didn't blow it up yet. I wouldn't put it past her, though, since she's _so_ good at blowing."

Eddie groaned from the couch and pulled the blankets over his head.

Richie took it as his cue to crawl back into his sleeping bag. Eddie didn't ask why Richie was camping out on the floor instead of sleeping in his bedroom, much to Richie's Intense Relief. It _was_ fuck o'clock in the morning, after all. He could whip out a mom joke without even thinking, but he probably wasn't coherent enough to answer an awkward question without an equally awkward response, like, _Gee, Eds, I just wanted to be close to you!_

Actually, if he answered it just like that, Eddie would totally think he was joking. It wouldn't be the first time comedy had Saved Richie's Ass.

"Richie?"

Eddie's voice was still all sleep-heavy. It came out muffled beneath his blankets.

Richie froze again. _Shit, here it comes._ "Yeah?"

"Do you think I should take Aunt Linda's advice about going to school in Bangor?"

 _Crisis averted_.

"Dude, I don't know. Do you _want_ to go to school there?"

"Well, yeah." Eddie pulled the blankets from his face. His voice was quickly gaining strength. "I think I do. Not right away, I guess. I'd have to save up money. But maybe after a year or two of community college, I could transfer."

"And still live at home with mommy?"

"I don't know. I was thinking... maybe I'll try living someplace else. Like, if you wanted to transfer too, maybe we could get an apartment in Bangor? We'd have to work our asses off, but it might be kind of fun."

Richie lay there in his sleeping bag, staring up at the basement ceiling, trying to ignore the old familiar ache in his chest. He chose, as usual, to defend himself with a joke.

"Jeez, Eddie, you're trying to move things pretty fast. Moving in together? We're not even married yet! Your mom will be scandalized!"

"Richie, come on. I'm serious."

"Fine, fine. I think you should do it. You have a car now. You can do _anything_. Fuck Derry and fuck your mom—after I'm done with her, of course."

Eddie tried to sigh, but it came out sounding more like a laugh. "I'm going back to sleep. Let's hope my car's there when I wake up."

"It'll be there," Richie promised him.

Richie would be there, too, for as long as Eddie wanted. Forever, he hoped, listening once more to Eddie breathing a short distance away.

Forever wasn't fucking long enough.


End file.
